


...And The Forest Began to Sing

by vulturewomen



Category: The Creatures | Cow Chop RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Broken Bones, Explicit Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Skinwalker, Unreliable Narrator, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 13:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18993217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulturewomen/pseuds/vulturewomen
Summary: The thing crawled shivering into his bed. “I love you,” it said. “You are mine, and I am yours.” But it’s mouth was a dark hole, and its skin hung loose on its bones.





	...And The Forest Began to Sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [narzisstische](https://archiveofourown.org/users/narzisstische/gifts).



> Please read the tags before reading this. It isn't pretty.

**_"What’s done at night belongs to the night. In the daytime you don’t talk about it."_ **

* * *

 

The night in an impeding darkness. The moon looms from her place in the sky; the mother of the universe keeping a watchful eye over her children.

The truck chugs along, its shakiness showing its age. He’s too far out in the sticks for the radio to pick up any signal, so he keeps himself entertained, tapping a familiar beat on the steering wheel, one hand resting on the top and the other barely touching the bottom, his fingertips _just_ skirting the fine, black leather, now flaying at the edges from years of use.

He glances, briefly, at the neon-green clock blinking on his dashboard. It reads quarter to seven, but winter means it may as well be midnight, his headlights the only means of navigation. He has little to no vision with the snow; flakes glomming together on the windshield to form impenetrable mounds of sludge that James can't see past, or through. He flicks the wipers on, but they serve only to push furthering mounds back and forth, smudging dirt across the glass. James huffs.

But—

This isn’t a job he can pass up. When his client, an elderly widower with a penchant for gaudy jewellery, said so as much by the amalgamation of rusted gold hanging from her neck and age-stretched lobes, had met him on that fateful Wednesday, propositioning a lovely, home-away-from-home in the middle of the forest that'd make a good setting for Leatherface to do his bidding, James had thought her mad, but the ivory cheque that had slid across the polished oak table and into his waiting lap had wiped any preconceived notions from his mind. He'd climb Mount Everest for the amount she was paying, hell, he’d walk up backwards.

She'd mentioned, in passing, that she'd already hired a builder and a plumber to do the hard work for him. She only wanted him for the painting, and various touch-ups later if necessary. He'd sent his thanks to sky.

He wishes it was a half-now-half-later deal, so he’d at least have enough to fix up his truck first and not risk his life trying to get there, but whatever.

Here’s hoping divine intervention gets him that money lest anything go sideways.

He lurches sideways in his seat and curses when the truck hits a lonesome pothole, or dirthole considering how unused the road is. The state never bothered to pave it, but he supposes with the lack of traffic up it anyway, it’d be a waste of government resources. Resources that he pays for.

 He sends another look to the sky, this time conspiratorial, as if Whatever had heard him and was wanting to teach him a lesson.

The road, when he nears the end of it, leads to a mass expanse of trees, a forest that spreads three miles deep into the tar-black darkness, luminated only by the moon whose iridescent light struggles through the canopy, only spilling through in small, bleak sections, casting small triangles of light along the foliage like stepping stones, and certainly not nearly enough for James to see with.

He reaches down and flicks his headlights up to full-beam and gapes at the flurry of green before him.

“Fucking holy hell”, he whispers to himself, as if talking any louder will spook the beauty away, as if the forest can hear him. There’re greens he’s never even seen before. It’s all moss, emerald, lime swatches living within a forest that rarely, if ever, sees enough light for the hues to truly be observed. It’s a testament to their determination. They entwine, like midnight lovers, tangling around each other until James can’t see where one ends, and another begins.

He pushes forward.

He follows the ever-narrowing track up to a private stonework cottage, swathed by tendrils of ivy climbing their way towards the roof. It’s a chalk colour, black peppering along its breast. The windows are a deep brown, shoddy paint chipping along the frames’ lip and brow, the very age of the cottage showing in its deterioration. It’s two storeys, though the second floor remains mostly untouched, judging by the colour of the netting on the upstairs windows, an off-white to the point of nicotine yellow. The cottage sits to the left side of the lane and is mostly protected from the snow by the figurative umbrella above it.

And—

There’s light coming from inside.

It’s barely there. Just the occasional flicker, a warm orange seeping through the windows and bathing the snow that sits along the ground against the wall of the cottage outside. He furrows a brow, anxiety creeping up his belly to sit in his chest, heart thrumming like a rabbit’s. He can’t see much in the way of movement, the netting on the windows much too thick, but he swallows reflexively, trying to push down the mounting dread that visits whenever he’s forced to meet somebody new.

He signals, ever-cautious, and pulls the car over to the side of the track, its tires digging into the already 4 inches of snow and sits, letting the engine idle, rubbing his hands together over the heater like it’s a campfire, trying to warm up before he succumbs to the winter outside. The headlights ricochet off the wall of the cottage and dazzle him, stars painting the back of his eyelids in wicked reds, and blues, and yellows, so he blinks, wild, and he flicks them off.

He stays in the car until his hands are tingling with warmth, his knuckles a pleasant ruddy pink, and then turns the key to switch the engine off. It stutters, struggling, and then falls quiet. He turns and reaches into the backseat, pulling a large duffel bag holding his supplies, spare clothes and snacks, onto his lap. He picks up his phone from the passenger seat, not knowing how much use its going to be this far away from civilisation and tucks it into the front pocket of the bag.

He opens the door to the truck, using his feet to push open the sheer weight of the metal, and heaves himself out, landing ankle deep in freezing cold snow, now ice at its core. He curses under his breath and slams the door shut. The sound echoes amongst the trees, and corvids flee from their nests. He doesn’t bother locking it the truck, the fob on his keys long broken. There’s nothing in there of value worth stealing, anyway.

Besides, who is out here, bar him and the light inside the house?

He trudges through the snow to the front door, a wide brown-oak door, with a cut-out panel for a small, stained glass window, and pushes the weaved, golden handle down, using his shoulder to push the door open where he has no free hands. The front door leads to a vestibule, painted duck-egg blue and decorated with framed printed paintings, where he toes off his snow-covered boots. He leaves them next to another pair of shoes, a tattered pair of workman’s boots presumably belonging to whoever is behind the inside door. He sets down his duffle, briefly, to shuck off his outdoor coat, pocketing his winter hat in the breast pocket. He hangs it on one of the empty hooks.

He picks up his duffle, the handle wet from the melting snow, takes a deep breath, pulling in air until his chest is tight and fit to burst and pushes open the inner door, exhaling as it swings open.

He peers his head through first, surveying the area, before stepping through the threshold, his socked feet landing on bare wood where carpeting hasn’t been done yet. A loose thread on his sock hooks and pings on an exposed nail. There’s a singular threadbare rug in the middle of the room. His eyes land on the candles in the corner, sitting under the glass dome of a lantern, lined along the wall underneath the windowsill, freshly painted stark white.

James sits his bags down in the corner near the door, tucked flush to the wall and out of the way.

The walls have been plastered. All four walls are an off-beige, bruises of darker brown throughout. That means James’ can get in and get out, collect his reward money, and then retire 40 years early, living out the rest of his unremarkable life in a chalet in the Alps, fulfilling his destiny of becoming a recluse that children tell nail-biting horror stories about.

_Don’t go up to the house on the hill. Why? A cannibal lives there. And? And he eats children!_

His client had wanted the walls of the main living room an olive green, for warmth. He’d usually argue. He’d usually say, “you want warmth? Why not try a deep red? Or sea blue?” but she’d been adamant, and James is not the type to argue with white ladies, particularly ones with his veritable ballsack in their perfectly French-manicured talons.

He wanders further into the living room, through the door along the back wall, and happens upon a kitchen, where a young man, probably no older nor younger than himself, is leaning on the centre island, an obsidian block with a rack of utensils hanging above it. The man looks up, startled, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t, despite being empty-handed, and stands to attention as if a private greeting his major.

“Yo”, James greets, coolly, leaning around the door frame, not wanting to fully insert himself into the room and intrude.

“Hey”, the man responds, nodding his head upwards in regard, a question clearly written on his face, but one he’s clearly not willing to voice, perhaps as shy as James himself is, so he figures he’d better start the introductions and get them out of the way, before the awkwardness becomes stifling.

“James”, he waves. “I’m the painter.” He smiles, small and encouraging. He’s never been good with strangers. Not long gone were the days of hiding behind his mother’s legs while she talked to an old friend at the flea market.

 _You remember my son, James?_ She’d say, and James would grip her trouser-leg tighter, white knuckle bleeding through skin like the teeth of some great predator skulking for a feast.

 _My, you’ve gotten so big!_ The stranger would say, wonderous, corn-coloured teeth and shining, button black eyes leaning down towards his face, ready to unhinge their jaw and swallow him, whole.

“Nice to meet you”, not willing to meet his eye for very long, despite his apparent manners, the man introduces himself with his gaze to the counter, “I’m Aleks”.

“What are you in for?”

“Carpentry”, the stranger, Aleks, scratches at the back of his neck and looks at James through a look of exasperation. “Sheila wants me to make her furniture and it _had_ to be this weekend, obviously. Not _last_ weekend when it wasn’t blizzarding,”, he gestures to where snowflakes cover the window, peaking over the frame like voyeurs, “and not next weekend because the electrician needs to come back and re-do some wiring in here, and double check the rest of his handiwork.” The corner of his mouth ticks up in a sardonic smile, entirely unpleased by the situation he’s gotten himself into, “Which I suppose is a good thing, huh?”

James raises an eyebrow, his forehead tight with the cold, “Why’s that?”

“Uh— “, Aleks frowns at James like he’s stupid, “the powers out?” Rhetorical, “Haven’t you noticed?”

He doesn’t know why he feels defensive, a long-forgotten anger simmering under the skin, a kernel of popcorn ready to burst. He swallows a harsh rebut.

Instead—

He shrugs. “I just thought you liked candles. Maybe you like _ambience_ ”, and he says it in this goofy voice, exaggerating his accent to mock someone he barely knows, but Aleks beams despite it, laugh lines deep in his cheeks.

“Well, I have _always_ wanted to live pre-Franklin. Y’know, see what it’s like to live entirely in the dark when you run out of candles.” And he’s looking at James now, eyes full of mirth, and James is struck by how beautiful he is.

He has a full head of brunette hair that sits slightly too long at the back and curls behind his ears, and a pair of brown eyes that sit deep in his skull. He wears lines along his forehead, carved in marble, and crows’ feet sit adjacent to his eyes, closed slightly in a smile. James wouldn’t describe him as lithe, but he’s not stocky either. He looks like he might’ve outgrown his limbs as a teenager and become a little gawky before growing into his adult body. There’s a mottling of acne scarring lining his jaw, where sparse stubble sits. James can see a peak of a tattoo poking out of the bottom of his salt and pepper woollen jumper, his fingers curled around the cuffs in a bid to preserve his warmth. His smile, small, slowly weens from his face, and he wears an eyebrow high on his head and James realises then that he’s probably staring. He averts his gaze, tucking a coarse, rogue curl behind his ear.

“How long have you been painting?” The man asks, perhaps to rid of the tension, or perhaps because he’s interested. He rests an alabaster hand against his hip, the other still leaning against the island. He stands on one leg, his socked left foot resting on top of his right.

James knows he doesn’t look like a painter. He’s stout, dark-skinned, with a head full of untameable curls. Most people don’t envision painters to look like him.

“Nearly a decade, probably. Got outta the clink and couldn’t get anything else. Never figured myself an artist, but apparently, I’m good enough that rich old ladies want me to paint their backwoods cabins”, he shrugs, ignoring the ingrained desire to defend himself. The rare times he confesses that he’s been to prison, he watches righteousness settle in, as if they were right about their pre-conceived notions after all. Aleks face remains open, and ready to listen. “What about you?”

“Doing carpentry? Since I was a boy. My dad used to do it as a hobby, and I guess I took interest. We built a treehouse when I was eleven, and I haven’t really looked back.” He inclines his head, and his voice is quiet, “Besides, Russia didn’t offer a lot of opportunities”, he smiles, small.

“Russia?”

“Yeah, man.” He nods, and swallows, “My mom was Russian. I was born there. Lived there until I was about eight and then mom moved us to the good ol’ midwestern United States. Followed an abusive boyfriend out here. He’s long gone now.”

And James doesn’t ask what that means. He’s not entirely sure he wants the elaboration. He’s not been long off probation. Marie will kill him if he ends up in the clink again. His PO’s been trying to get him on the straight and narrow for longer than her paycheck says to. James is her little pet project and she daren’t give up now. Besides, Aleks didn’t ask for an explanation, so it’s unfair for James to.

 “What kind of thing has she commissioned for you to whittle?” He leans his hip against the kitchen island, now, mirroring Aleks, and crosses his arms over his chest, tucking his hands underneath his armpits to warm them up.

“Whittle?” He inclines his head, “That hurts, James.”

James bites his lip. It’s nice to hear his name on this man’s tongue. He raises his eyebrows, gesturing for the man to tell all. Aleks concedes.

“She wants a big dining table.” Aleks holds his hands out wide in demonstration, fingers still tucked into his sleeves. He lets his hands drop, tucking them into his jean pockets. “I don’t know who she thinks is going to drive all the way out here for Thanksgiving when Wendy’s is open, but hey! I’m not an eccentric old hag living like I’m in Lord of The Rings.”

James laughs at the diatribe. “You’re quite the poet”.

The man shrugs, his mouth hitching up into a satirical smile. “It’s my day job.”

“Carpentry doesn’t let you retire early?” James’ voice is earnest, but his eyes are full of mirth. Sure, he came here to paint walls an ugly puke colour, who says he can’t have a little fun in the process?

“Nah, man. It’s mostly commission work so you just gotta get lucky”. The man won’t look at James now, and he’s not having that.

“Is this lucky?” He tilts his head and lets his face bleed a lopsided grin.

“Guess so.” He’s looking at James’ through off-black lashes, sun-bleached at their tip. “At least I won’t freeze to death alone.”

º 

The world outside is dark. It’s only been a few hours. It’s probably no later than 10, but the lack of civilisation, the lack of city noise, the lack of headlights flying past, makes the forest outside the cabin look like a black hole. The candles are trying their best to light up the room, flicking their long, orange flames, like forked tails, to reach the corners of the main living room.

Light moves through the room like a wave. It dims to a burnt orange, and then the room is awash in peaches and tangerines, and then dims to an amber, and then back around again. Over and over.

It bathes Aleks. He is like the sun, for which all light emits. James is Icarus, all wax wings and ambition.

Light catches the sharp clenching of his jaw, his triceps pulsing, his fingers stretching against the skin.

He is the forbidden fruit; left unembraced, perching on the end of a slender, winding branch; his redness glimmering in winter's regard. James watches, the Adam and the Eve, warily, the consequences of what he might do, or wants to do, sit heavily on his shoulders. The threat of expulsion, of banishment, or utter aloneness, keep him standing firmly in the corner of the cottage, holding a paintbrush limply from his hand, flecks of paint splatting against his thigh on the downswing.

Aleks works over the dining table, severing a thick piece of wood over the stand with a saw, his face a sheen of sweat that he wipes from his brow, his jumper long forgotten, discarded in the corner of the room in a rumpled heap. His teeth are sunken into his bottom lip in exertion, and he huffs air through it to blow the hair hanging over his forehead away. His white t-shirt is an opaque, the ring around his neck and the fabric under his arm pits soaking with sweat.

James sets the paintbrush down along the lip of the paint can that Sheila had so kindly provided, and walks over to his duffle, the lip of it already hanging open where’d taken his brushes out earlier. He reaches in and grabs a bottle of water he’d put in there before leaving his house. He unscrews the cap with deft fingers, and lifts it to his lips, taking three long, loud gulps. The sawing across the room stops, and James pulls the bottle away to look over at Aleks, who is already looking at him. Aleks’ eyes flicker almost imperceptibly to James’ mouth, before meeting his eyes again.

“Do you have any more?”

As if there isn’t a functioning sink a room away.

James shakes his head, “you can have the rest of this, if you want?”

Aleks nods. James recaps the bottle and throws it underarm across the room, force lacking so as not to overthrow. Aleks’ eyes follow its arc across the room, and he catches it against his chest. He uncaps the bottle, unfurling the cap along the barrelled plastic of the neck with long, white fingers, and brings the bottle to his lips. He purses, pushing ever-so slightly, the pink, marshmallow skin of his mouth discolouring to a staunch white against the rim. He pulls, and water drips from the bottle and into his mouth, drops of the liquid escaping and dripping down his chin. James watches it arc over his jaw and drip down the stubbled length of his neck. He feels incandescent. Heat furls in the pit of his belly, the beast he swallowed desperately trying to crawl its way back up.

“Thanks,” Aleks says, clearing his throat, and swallowing again. James is speechless, not trusting his voice, so he nods, quick. Aleks puts the bottle on the floor by his bench, and pulls the hair from his face, strands pulling through his fingers like snakes, the sweat accumulated allowing it to stay pushed back. “Do you have anything else in there?” He asks, pointing with one long finger to James’ duffel bag on the floor.

“I have some snacks?” He asks, the cadence in his voice an invitation. Aleks hesitates. Then nods, and comes towards James, dragging the threadbare rug behind him to use as a make-shift picnic rug, fully intending on using snacks to procrastinate saw work.

 “What kind of snacks did you bring?”

James sucks the inside of his cheeks as he rifles through his bag, moving his haphazardly folded clothes aside to unearth the snacks he threw in earlier. “None of it is nutritious, so I hope you’re not waiting for a gourmet meal to be pulled out of this bag, like I’m Mary Poppins. It’s all sugary shit.”

Aleks shrugs one shoulder, eyes fixed on James’ hands in the duffel. “I like sugary shit.” His eyes land on James for just a second.

James looks at him for a beat too long, and then shrugs, dismissing himself. He pulls out a handful of candy, “this is from Halloween. I overestimated how many kids would trick or treat”, and then pulls out one Twinkie.

“Wow. Spoilt for choice!” Aleks jokes, hand against his cheek, aghast.

James raises his eyebrows, affronted. “Hey, man! Did you bring any snacks?” A beat, “Didn’t think so.” 

They both reach for the Twinkie, fingers brushing atop of it. James whips his hand away, fast, as if burnt. Electricity thrums along and up his arm. He feels it race down his spine, and he shivers. Aleks watches him, calculating, like he’s daring him to explain his behaviour, but James stays mum.

“Do you want to split it?” Aleks offers.

It’s a peace offering, a fishing boat pushed along to the neighbouring island, gods sat atop their mountains, measuring the opposite. No one dare step down from their hill, only watch from their perch. Only wait for the other to turn the boat around and send it back.

James nods.

Aleks rips open the packet with his teeth, his canines digging and ripping. He spits a stray piece of plastic from his tongue, and it flies an inch before arcing and falling to the floor away from them.

He estimates the middle, and then rips, handing a piece to James, fingers brushing, again. He keeps the half leaking cream for himself. James watches him bring the piece to his mouth, stick out his tongue, and lap up the dribbling guts.

He swallows.

His body feels like it’s burning.

He takes a bite out of his half, avoiding the show in front of him, and stares at a loose thread on the rug. He picks at it, pulling it and wrapping it around his index finger. The head of his finger tip turns a mauve, and he loses feeling. His finger thrums like the static of an old television. He tugs, and the thread snaps. Colour flushes back into his finger. It turns a beet, a salmon, the capillaries racing back into his finger. His finger returns to olive, and he rubs it against the skin of his thumb, dryness catching where winter has sucked out the moisture.

He watches goose bumps race up his arm, from his wrist and up towards his elbow, around the curve of the bone and up and along his shoulder blade, the chill of the snow outside finally making its home within him and he realises that he’s freezing. He shivers, just slightly, but enough to be noticeable.

“Are you cold?” Aleks asks, voice small where it can’t quite fight past the chill, either. His skin has shrunk to his flesh, and his fingers are knobbly, where knuckle sits bigger than carpal, tips drumming against the bare wooden floor.

James nods, voiceless, where his teeth chatter against themselves.

“I doubt we’re getting out of here tonight with this snow.” Aleks says, gesturing to the bay window, coated half in thick whiteness. “We should probably bed in for the night.”

James looks at Aleks then. His gypsum skin now ruddy, cheeks a flushed pink, lips a rose red. He licks his lips, hesitates, and then shakes his head. “With what?”

Aleks tilts his head. “We could look for blankets?” He pauses, and then seems to remember something, “You’ve got spare clothes, too. You could double up on the stuff you’re wearing now.” He says it matter of fact, and James laughs, humourlessly.

He asks, “You want me to walk around here looking like the Michelin man?” but Aleks is already moving to stand, hand out for James. He gestures with his head and wiggles his fingers. He smiles, small.

James sighs. Unfold his legs and takes the hand. He allows himself to be pulled up and doesn’t think about the thrum of warmth from Aleks’ hand. He doesn’t think about Aleks’ hesitation to let go.

James waits for Aleks to move ahead in search of something warm to sleep on, and then follows him.

He walks with a purpose. His foot skipping every other step, in too much of a rush to walk properly.

James doesn’t watch the sway of his hips. Doesn’t watch the brush of his thighs. Doesn’t admire the way his t-shirt is stuck, wet, to his back, like a marble cloth.

James follows him into the heart of the house, fingertips brushing against the doorframe to push himself ahead. They walk through the kitchen and into the hall where the staircase sits, covered in dust and unloved, carpet frayed against the wood, flush against the wall.

“You think there’s something in one of the bedrooms?” Aleks asks, turning to face James, his face flushed from exertion, hair now falling against his forehead. He blows air through his lower lip to get it out of his eyes.

James tongues the back of his teeth, “Maybe?”

He feels nervous. The stairs are ghostly, untrodden or have been for some time. A sickness stirs in his belly at the thought of disturbing the dust.

There is a wildness in Aleks’ eyes, a demented energy where, for a moment, James regards him as entirely unhinged; crows’ feet dancing in circles against his alabaster skin, eyelashes fluttering like he is deep within a dream, and James cannot find the courage in himself to say no.

So, “Come on, then”, he cups a hand against James’ shoulder, fingers running against blades, “let’s go look!”, and James’ allows himself to be moved. He ducks his shoulder, bringing it into his body and out of the way for Aleks to overtake, who takes the steps two at a time in a rush to get to the landing, adorned with an old, rugged carpet, where he peers over the ivory banister and waits patiently for James to join him.

Spirals upon spirals weave their way up and against the staircase. James lets his fingers clunk against each rivet; a femur, a fibula. Brushes his knuckles across it before knocking twice. Solid.

 A barrier between the discovered below and the undiscovered above.

His fingers curl around the crafted wood. Nails washed white with the pressure of his fingertips. Aleks makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat, and James eyes rise to join his. His eyes are alight in their ferality.

James levels with the catwalk, and he and Aleks step into the main bedroom. A long-forgotten sleeper of a once happy union; dust sits thick along the duvet like a comforter, all faux-silk and ribbed cotton. Neat corners tucked under the mattress, pillows laying without a crease, as though they were touched one last time and then never again. The bed is housed by four posters, and a faint white chiffon hood acts as a barrier between where they are and where they should not be.

Trepidation sits heavy on James’ shoulders, its cold fingers wrapped tightly around his neck.

Aleks moves the fabric away with his fingers, and reaches with greedy hands for the duvet, pulling it away with force, like a magician revealing his latest and greatest illusion, white pearls glinting in triumph where they’re buried behind shiny lips. Aleks passes the duvet, now bunched up and rolled over itself, to James, and reaches again for the bed to grab the two adjoining pillows. He shakes them against his leg to rid of the dust, decades of accumulation now catching moonlight through a split in the curtain, and floating like ghosts, forgotten and begging to be seen.

The thick pane is covered in grime. The moon barely filters through.

He tucks them under his arms for ease of carrying, and gestures for James to move, sighing when James is seemingly frozen in place. He overtakes and heads back down the staircase, not sparing a glance over his shoulder for James, as though confident that James will follow.  

He’s right.

James swallows. Blinks twice. He steps out of the bedroom, and from his place on the landing, reaches forward for the door knob and pulls, closing the door and allowing it, again, to rot in privacy. He twists as he pulls, and then turns it again, slowly, not wanting to hear the grating as the latch clicks into place. Not wanting to disturb it anymore than he already has.

James turns on his heel and follows Aleks down the stairs, the old wooden floorboards creaking and waning under the weight of them both. James waits for the collapse. Waits for the stairs to cave in. But they don’t. He reaches the bottom of the stair case and promises to himself, to the house, his one free hand splayed across the freshly painted walls, that he won’t go up there again.

Aleks returns to their current working slash living place, with James close behind.

 It’s a mess, and James feels shameful that he’s allowed his belongs to be strewn across a house that doesn’t belong to him. They’re both guests here, regardless of the paycheque, and he should act accordingly, or at least with an ounce of respect. He lays the balled-up duvet on top of the pillows that Aleks has already put on the floor, and walks across the room, picking up discarded food packages and unfolded clothes. He returns them all to his duffel and closes the bag with a resounding _zip_.

He hears fabric rustling and turns to see Aleks unfurl the duvet in his periphery.

“At least it’s a double, right?”

The fool that James is hadn’t thought about the specifics of their sleeping arrangements. Of course, they’d have to share. He nods in response, turning fully to face him now.

“I hope you’re not a hog.”

“I daren’t”.

Aleks brings the duvet to his nose and inhales. “Yuck.” He shakes it out, spreading it as far as he can reach to lay it on top of the carpet on the floor. “Smells like death.”

“You’re so dramatic”, James scolds and shakes his head, “that’s mildew, where it’s been sat in the bedroom for so long.”

“Do you think somebody died on it?” He asks, childlike wonder glassing over his eyes, wide with possibility.

“Are you always this irreverent?” James is terse. It's apparent he's not happy. Or rather, to the nude eye, it's apparent. In actual reality, his very terseness is a mighty disguise.

“Depends on the day. Shall we go through today’s itinerary, and see if my irreverence is appropriate?”, and he waits for James’ response, but is met only with a long sideways glance, “We’re in the middle of a snowstorm in a cabin with no heat. I think my being so-called disrespectful to lighten the mood can be forgiven.”

James shrugs, considering the moment forgotten. A brief awkwardness follows. He feels as if he is climbing the walls, hairs along his body standing upright like imperials. He wants to be done with this whole thing, but this stranger stroke night time companion seems to have other ideas.  

“Would you like to be in charge of the pillows?” Aleks asks, a veritable burying of the hatchet, “I usually sleep with a lot, so I can create a nest around myself, but since there’s two of us, and only two pillows”, he drags the word out and gestures wide with his hands, “I think you should oversee them. I don’t want to be selfish.” Again, his eyes are full of mirth, the white of his sclera dazzling; a chandelier washing the room alight.

James unceremoniously tosses them where their heads ought to go, leaving enough distance between them that they’re neither too close nor too far. He’s not in the mood for a conversation on the semantics of pillow placing. Aleks offers him a sharp clap on the back and a self-satisfied “Good job”.

James throws the duvet back over itself and sits down, cross-legged, atop the threadbare rug they’ve got acting as a mattress. The bones of his pelvis ache against the wood. He swallows reflexively, in what might be nerves or might be anticipation, when Aleks reaches for the waistband of his jeans, and yanks; the legs of his trousers folding over themselves. His nakedness exhibits an array of tattoos that paint across his thighs. James averts his eyes.

“Sorry, man”, Aleks explains, “I can’t sleep in jeans. They’ll constrict my blood flow and I’ll wake up paralysed from the waist down.” He shrugs to punctuate the end of his sentence, as if it’s reason enough to get half naked in the middle of a snow storm.

There’s a really intricate pattern on a piece of wood on the floor, far more interesting than Aleks’ bare legs. It looks like a face; its jaw unhinged and swinging. Kind of looks like The Scream. Pareidolia, or something, right?

“I don’t think that’s how biology works.” James voice is small, and he stumbles over his own tongue. He watches Aleks fold his jeans over his arms in his periphery. He puts them on the floor near James’ duffel, and pats them flat so they don’t unfurl.

James pulls the duvet over his legs and lays down, every bone in his back acting like a steel support for the bridge of his body. The threadbare rug is doing absolutely nothing, but he figures it’s better than sleeping on the bare wood. At least he can pretend that it offers some comfort. There’s a stray piece of wool, or two, that’re already starting to itch. He uses the sensation as a distraction, focussing solely on the irritation, as Aleks climbs under the duvet beside him.

There’s at least a foot between them but it feels both too little and too much.

James can feel the warmth radiating off Aleks, and it takes everything in him to not give into the evolutionary need for heat and move closer. The cell, the organism, the fish, the lizard, the bird, the monkey, the homosexual pretending he’s not interested.

They’re both laying on their backs. There’re more faces across the ceiling. Even with it newly painted ivory white, there’s swirls, a captive audience. James can pick out a dog, and a man in a top hat. He figures one might call this cloud-gazing.

He turns on his side and squeezes his eyes shut and watches the stars dance across his eyelids. The brightest does a pirouette. He yawns and a tear leaks out of the corner of his eye. It drips along his face and into his hair.

He feels the warmth of Aleks moving, and then there’s a hot breath on the back of his neck. James’ hairs are stood on end. Aleks’ eyes are open. He can feel it.

The duvet shifts, where it canopies over the both of their shoulders, and James freezes when he feels Aleks’ hand rise and trail over his leg.

He wants to move closer. He needs to move away.

He shifts his leg away from Aleks.

He’s a lot closer than James thought, because in doing so, he brushes his rear against Aleks’ barely clothed groin. He stutters out a breath, bringing his chin to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut. He hears, faraway, Aleks shush him; the orphaned fawn staring down the barrel of a hungry hunter. James swallows when Aleks readjusts, rubbing his warm, wet heat against James ass.

 James’ breath is shallow in his lungs, and he feels like he’s going to hyperventilate. His body is on fire.

He shifts, pushing hard against Aleks, who’s hungry hands are searching for James’ skin under the duvet. He pushes James’ shirt up and splays his hands across James’ belly, using the purchase he has to propel the momentum of his thrusts. James pushes back, eyes closed so tight there’s fireworks exploding against the inside of his eyelids.

Aleks reaches with his free hand to pull James’ sweatpants down over the curve of his ass.

Needing to feel closer.

Needing more contact between the two of them.

James feels Aleks’ hot breath against the shell of his ear in a plea. He’s whispering, “You got anything?” but James shakes his head. Not trusting his own voice. Not wanting the shake of his throat to give anything away.

Aleks rests his forehead against the back of James’ head and breathes heavily.

They thrust together. James feel vomit curdle in his belly when he climaxes, shooting wet, warm goo into his boxers and soiling them.

If Aleks was any closer, he’d be inside James’ skin. Living under it with all the blood and muscle and bone. James wants to crawl out of bed and change his underwear, but he’s weighted to the bed. He, immaturely, doesn’t want Aleks to see him naked.

He stews in his shame. Lets it stick to his pubic hair, the hair on his inner thighs. He doesn’t dare touch it. Doesn’t dare look.

The night passes slowly. Aleks breaths heavily against James’ back. James feels claustrophobic. A shadow moves past the window. He blames it on his tiredness.

He feels like he doesn’t get a lick of sleep but one minute it’s dark, and the next it’s not. His eyes are dry like he slept with them open. It’s still snowing. The snow illuminates the room where it hoards against the windowpanes surrounding the house. Nobody’s getting out any time soon. Nobody’s getting in. They’re stuck in this partial restored cabin until the snowstorm passes. He wishes it had cable.

He stares at the ceiling. There’s a patch where water damage has leaked through the upper floor. He needs to paint it over. Well, the owner needs to get a plasterer out, really, but like James said: Nobody’s getting in and nobody’s getting out.

Exhaustion sits behind his eyes like some ailing demon searching for an ounce of vulnerability to strike. Begging for attention. It drums its song against his temples like a snake charmer.

He can see Aleks in his periphery. His heart thrums with anxiety. He doesn’t want to look, because if he looks, it makes it real. His hand skirts around his groin, avoiding the sullied boxers. He swallows, and then slowly turns to look. He’s so close James’ eyes find it hard to focus. He has a dabbling of light freckles along his nose, and acne scares along both cheekbones that James really wants to kiss, but doesn’t.

Aleks lays there, shrouded in white linen bunched up against his chin, the apple of his backside ripe for a feast; its skin ruddy and covered in a sheen of silk. James fights the ferocious need to eat him alive.  

James has no idea what the time is. The sun is barely visible over the crest of the forest so he figures it can’t be very early. He wants to get the painting done so that when the snow clears, he can get out of town and never come back. But starting the job means waking Aleks, and waking Aleks means looking at him, and looking at him means acknowledging that something happened between them last night. And god, does he not want to acknowledge that.

Dread sits firm is his belly when Aleks’ eyes flutter open. He looks around the room briefly before his eyes settle on James. He smiles a small smile and James rears up, startling him.

“I’m going to get started on the wall.”

Aleks frowns, rubbing sleep out of his eye. “Don’t you want to eat?”

“’M not hungry”, is all he can manage before he disappears around the wall into the hallway. He leans against it, out of sight, and heaves a heavy breath. Aleks, sleep-ruffled, bleary-eyed, licking the dryness out of his mouth. It’s not something James can handle. He dry heaves, hands gripping onto his knees for dear life.

“James?”

Aleks calls.

It sounds far away. Like he’s shouting from the distant end of a long tunnel. James’ periphery is going white. There’s a ringing so loud, he touches his finger to his ear and pulls it away to inspect for blood.

“James.”

When he says it again, he’s not calling, or asking. He’s stood in front of James and practically whispering. He’s crouched slightly, bent at the knee to look James in the eye where he’s almost doubled over against the wall. James didn’t even hear him come over. Couldn’t hear him over the screaming in his ear.

“You okay?” He asks. Eyes wide, eyebrows furrowed in concern. James daren’t meet his eye. “You sick, or something?”

James shakes his head.

James watches Aleks reach a worried hand out towards him. He meets his eye then. Flecks of fury dance like a forest fire. “Don’t touch me.”

Aleks blinks, shocked. And then his face falls. He nods, with some sort of crestfallen finality. Like he read James like a book. Like he’s just proven some notion he had meeting James. A notion he really didn’t want to be right about. “Right, it’s like that.”

James can see the disappointment in his eyes. He wants, desperately, for the aching in his gut to burn up in his stomach acid. But it doesn’t. It sits heavy. Like a tonne.

Aleks starts to walk away. He does. He takes a step, and then another. And then, turns. He rears back, looks at James with anger that burns. “Just because you’re ignoring it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

And then he’s gone. Disappeared around the wall like a mirage. Like he was never even there.

º

Aleks saws all day. James suspects he doesn’t need the amount of wood he’s amassed. He suspects it’s Aleks blowing off steam.

They haven’t spoken to each other. Barely looked at each other. James can hardly bear it.

The paint on the wall is tacky, so he can’t do a second coat. He considers doing the ceiling. He has a ladder in the truck, but the snow is still packed solid. At least the blizzard has stopped. Small streams of sunlight peeking through the canopy of the forest offer some hope that the snow will melt soon, and they can both leave and never see each other again.

James hopes.

Part of him wants to be stuck here forever.  

Can he use a chair from the kitchen? He could stand on that and paint it. What happens if he gets paint all over the chair? Does it get taken out of his paycheque? Will he have to pay for the damages? Will he be able to run away?

“—Yo!”

James looks over at Aleks, who’s staring at him in askance, bewildered. “What?”

Aleks scoffs, muttering under his breath. “I said, can you give me a hand? This piece is being stubborn and keeps jumping around everywhere. I need you to hold the other side while I saw through it.”

 _Do you really need more?_ James wants to say.

_Don’t you have enough?_

_What else do you want from me?_

But he stays quiets. Nods.

His brain is playing tricks on him. He hears a floorboard creak behind him. He eyes his periphery. He’s too afraid to turn around.

Something crunches against the snow outside. Something walks past the window.

“James?”

He brings his eyes forward. Slowly. Aleks looks concerned again. There’s no anger anymore. Just worry. Like the guy has known James for more than one day and one night. He squeezes his eyes shut.

One night. One night. Night. The dark. Black. Blackness. Nothing.

James opens his eyes. It’s dark. He’s no longer stood in the living room. He’s awake, in the makeshift bed on the floor; the perverse, slinking darkness of a nightmare still echoing ever so hot at the corners of mind, he first thinks of his mother. Of her loving, warm embrace and cotton sheets she'd invite him into to sleep away the terror. He thinks of her and breathes deep through his nose. The second thing he thinks of is the smell of wet forest burning his nose, the vacant space beside him, and the open front door.

It’s freezing.

He’s naked.

He stands, slowly. His knees crack against themselves. He’s twenty-nine; this is bullshit.

Why is he naked?

There’s a bruise, the size of an open mouth, sat heavy on his hip.

Why is he naked?

He pats his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He’s thirsty. Cottonmouth.

He bends over and reaches blindly, in the dark, for pair of boxer shorts. He can’t be sure if the ones he grabs are his or Aleks’ but it’s not a huge concern of his now.

Why is the front door open? Where is Aleks?

He walks towards the kitchen, mindful of the fact that he’s not used to the house and its dark.

He doesn’t want to trip over anything.

He doesn’t want to disturb anything.

He doesn’t want to touch anything.

The front door is open. Aleks is missing. He’s naked.

Was. Was naked.

He pulls a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water. The water trickles out of the tap like the pipe is being choked, twisted metal turned over and over. The glass is only half full before James gets impatient and turns it off.

He gulps the water. His eyes open.

From the kitchen window, he can see a figure stood in the forest, its alabaster skin reflecting off the moonlight, so white its almost blue.

He moves quickly. He puts the glass on the kitchen sideboard, scraping the base against the granite. It’s not far back enough because it falls to the floor and smashes. He moves blindly over it and stands in glass. He doesn’t care. The pain is distant.

He’s tracking blood through the house.

He gets to the front door, tries to swing it open. It’s already flush. There’s a partial hole where the handle sits against the wall. It was slammed open.

James looks out into the darkness. The figure is gone.

He steps out. Thinks better of it. He’s hardly dressed and there’s snow on the floor.

“Aleks?” He calls. Nothing. Something scuttles in the leaves on the forest floor.

He calls again.

“Hello?”

**_“James?”_ **

Someone called his name. His name. James. Someone knows he’s here.

 “Aleks?”

**_“Is that you?”_ **

James can’t answer. His body is frozen. Tears well up in his eyes. It isn’t Aleks. It isn’t Aleks.

**_“Help me.”_ **

It’s getting closer.

James squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to match the darkness of the forest. Someone. Something. Something is calling to him. It’s not Aleks. Its voice sounds far away and distorted. Its voice doesn’t sound like a voice. More like an echo. More like a mocking. More like a masquerade.

It beats like a war drum. It’s getting closer.

**_James. James. James. James! James! JAMES!_ **

James slams the door. Slams it and locks it. Something pounds on the door. Something loud and angry and strong. James plants his feet on the floor and pushes. He pushes with all his might.

**_James. Help me. Let me in, James! James!_ **

He can feel the screaming in his head. It hurtles down his ear canal and lands at the pit of his stomach. Like the bass at a concert when you’re stood too close to the speaker. Like its inside him.

It stops.

The banging stops. The calling stops.

James hesitates.

He steps away from the door.

He can see it before he turns. There’s someone in the bed.

He turns slowly.

Aleks is asleep. There’s a strip of moonlight across his face, sliding in through a crack in the curtain.

Aleks is asleep in the bed. Aleks was never gone. Aleks was never outside.  

º

Another sleepless night. Another night of staring at the water damage on the ceiling.

He’s making mistakes. He uses the wrong colour on the skirting board. It’s a stupid mistake but a mistake nonetheless, and a mistake Aleks doesn’t ignore.

“Are you supposed to be using that colour?”

“I don’t know”, he says, exhausted. “I don’t know”. James rests, sits back on his heels, lets them crumple beneath him.

Aleks comes to crouch next to him. Sees him lift a hand, and then drop it. Thinks better of it. James wishes he’d never said anything. Wishes Aleks would touch him now. Wishes Aleks would make it all go away.

He rubs a dirty hand across his face. He smears paint across his cheek. The wrong colour.

Aleks chuckles, light and airy, and licks his thumb to wipe the paint away. “Mucky pup”, he says, under his breath. Almost like he didn’t want to be heard. Almost like he did but could pretend he didn’t.

James meets his eye. Aleks moves his hand from James face to cup the back of his neck. Threads his fingers in the mass of curls. Lightly strokes his thumb in small, soothing circles. Tips his head, just slightly. James surges forward and catches Aleks’ mouth. Doesn’t let Aleks’ see the tears welling up in his eyes.

They kiss like they’re running out of air. Desperate, messy, fruitless. The air is running out.

James reaches, grabs, for Aleks’ waist. Pulls his shirt over his head and discards it across the room. Reaches for his own shirt. Moans at the sound of Aleks’ belt buckle clinking against itself as he pulls his jeans off.

“Hurry, hurry. Take your boxers off”, James begs, whispering just above his breath. He pulls his own jeans down, boxers wrapped up in the denim, and kicks them off at the ankle.  

James’ eyes are shut, tight. He moves, blindly. Aleks’ guides him.

Aleks lets James push him. Lets James get in between his legs. Lets James kiss him until black envelops his vision. Lets him kiss down his jaw, bite at his neck. Lets James roll his hips, brushing his prick against Aleks’. Lets James push two fingers inside him, three fingers. Lets James slick him, stretch him until he feels like he can’t be stretched anymore. Lets James drive his cock in to the hilt, until he feels so full that there’s not an inch of him that James doesn’t reach.

“James, James. Please.” He begs. Sweet relief, he begs. “Move, please. C’mon”.

James. James. **_James. Open your eyes, James. Look at me._**

James shivers. He opens his eyes.

It’s dark. He’s not even sure if he’s opened his eyes. It’s pitch black. Like an abyss. Like a black hole. There’s the moon. There’s the canopy. There’s him, laying on his back in the forest.

In the forest.

He sits up. Looks around wildly. Something is watching him. He knows it. He can feel it.

**_James. James, I’m here. If you’d just open your eyes, you’d see. I’m right here._ **

James stands, hastily, to his feet. Goosebumps litter his skin. He hears his teeth chattering distantly. He tries to be quiet. Tries to make as little noise as possible. He hears a scuttling. He twists, fast, and his ankle rolls underneath him. A _crack_. A hot, searing pain travels through his leg. Up his shin, around his calf, into his thigh. He screams through gritted teeth. He looks down.

His ankle is bent. It’s wrong. It’s turning purple, blue, red quickly. The skin of his ankle strains around a protruding bone. Acid flies up his throat, and he vomits, a burning ooze, onto the forest floor.

**_James._ **

It sing-songs.

**_James, are you there? Can you hear me?_ **

James screams. Screams at the top of his lungs. A guttural, desperate, war cry. Screams to drown out the thing. The talking. The questions. His name. The voice inside his head. The voice inside the forest.

Something lunges at him. It lunges from the side and knocks him over. Knocks the wind completely out of him. It wraps its slender, bony fingers around James’ throat and squeezes. James breathes, deep, tries to contain as much air in his lungs as possible.

James watches Aleks, or Not Aleks meet his eyes. Watches Not Aleks smile, sick and wide; teeth crimson and dripping. Watches blood drip from his mouth and coat his chin. Feels a drop land on his face. Watches Not Aleks tilt his head like a feral dog.

His vision goes white at the edges.

He surges up, pins Not Aleks down. Ignores the primal urge to fuck him. It looks like Aleks. For a second, it smells like Aleks. Eyes full of love like Aleks. Eyes full of tears.

“James, what are you doing? Where are we?”

James watches tears fall from the corner of his eyes and drip into his waterline. Leans down to kiss him. Kisses the air right out of his mouth. Licks deep into Aleks’ mouth. Sucks his tongue. Bites, draws blood. Aleks’ winces. James sits up, watches Aleks watch him with a worrying curiosity.

_What are you doing to me?_

James squeezes his thighs together, pins Aleks in place. Ignores their dicks pressing against each other. He reaches for a rock resting on the forest floor above Aleks, lifts it and drives it into his head.

 The rock hits his head with a sickening _thuck_ , and another, and another, until the warm, wet pinkness pulsing around James' fingers slinks out the back of its skull. Vermillion coats his fingers, burrows under his fingernails. Floods the forest floor.

James breathes. He takes in a gulp of air. Another gulp of air. He chokes on nothing. He hyperventilates. He rolls off the body and lay beside it, gasping for air. His vision is black and white sparkles, fireworks, stars dancing in his vision. He can’t see a thing.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Lets the darkness envelop him. Lets it clothe him in its void.

He must lay there for hours, because it’s suddenly light. It’s suddenly dawn. Birds are cawing in their nests. There’s a Judas bird somewhere, screaming.

_Get out. Get out. Get out._

James stands. Watches himself watch the body on the forest floor.

He turns. The green is dizzying. He has no idea where he is.

He hobbles through the forest towards the direction of the house, he thinks.

His foot rolls underneath him, and he catches himself, letting his elbow take the brunt of his weight instead of his wrist. He sits back on his knees and looks at his hands. They’re covered in blood. His hands, his arms, his chest, his legs. It’s dark, black almost. Dry.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

_How long has he been out here?_

The house folds into view, appearing behind a big tree. One of the biggest, James thinks.

The Judas bird caws. It follows him, sits atop the perch by the front door of the cottage.

James walks through the threshold. The make-shift bed is unmade. The linen is strewn about the room. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember. Didn’t he make it?

He doesn’t close the front door behind him. He heads through the hallway parallel to the kitchen. He stands at the foot of the stairs and looks up. The banister twists around itself like jagged, broken teeth. It’s an off-white. James should paint it.

He takes the stairs slowly. He can barely hold himself up, never mind the extra weight.

He levels at the top of the stairs, looks along the hallway and the rooms he daren’t touch. He walks towards the main bedroom. The door is open, ajar. He pushes it with his bad foot. Shoulders it open.

He walks to the side of the bed near the window. The one with perfect view of the outside. Of the forest. Of the green.

James puts the body on the bed. Lay his leaking skull against the pillow.

He walks to the other side, and clambers on. Positions himself parallel to the body. Closes his eyes.

Blood leaks all over the white linen. It leaks through the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> What is worse: a nightmare you don't know is a nightmare, or a nightmare that isn't a nightmare at all?
> 
> This is not, strictly speaking, a skinwalker fic. Just a, Something Masquerading as a Person fic. Something... not quite right. Skinwalker seems the best way to describe it, even if it's not technically true. I know nothing, I'm just here to write gross stories.
> 
> This will be subject to editing because I'm never truly happy with what I write. All of my finished pieces are essentially rough drafts, so maybe keep that in mind.
> 
> Title is from ...And The Forest Began to Sing by Röyksopp and the summary is from the game Here They Lie, which in a sense, kick started this mess with all its horrifying poetry. The opening line is a quote from Jean-Paul Sartre.
> 
> Any comments are greatly appreciated. Let me know what you think. I don't really need to say it, but this is unbeta'd. If there's mistakes, let me know and I'll fix them.
> 
> See ya.


End file.
